The Scarred Hand of Death
by ContemplatingUnderland
Summary: Unseemly violence, abuse and pure, odious angst. Also piercings and OCs for miles. Enjoy. DISCONTINUED.
1. Unexpected Cremation

Yeah, so I have no reason to right this except that it seemed fun. We all need a little Dark Harry now and then! Yay! (:3)

**Rating**: M, for language, graphic violence, chronic evilness, future HP/DM goodness

**Warning**: SLASH Harry x Draco, Evil/Slytherin Harry, Weasley/Granger/Dumbles bashing, OC

**Disclaimer**: Me no own HP characters, 'cuz me no called "J.K. Rowling". It's prob'ly for the best, as I'd have killed half the characters before my editor could stop me! MUAHAHAHAHAHA!

**CHAPTER ONE: Unexpected Cremation **

"No love is lost with the death of Vernon Dursley, as he had no love to offer as compensation. To love a Muggle like him could test the patience of the Mona Lisa in her frame and Petunia Dursley has earned my respect for trying. Sure, what they had was not 'love' as much as it was mutual obligation, having to keep up appearances and what not, but that duty held strong to the end. Needless to say, the turn out of this funeral has both surprised and repulsed me, with the attendee count hardly reaching double digits. You all gawk at me now, lips curled and eyebrows raised, perhaps wondering who I am and why I dare to speak ill of the dead. Well, all I can say to that is a mere speculation: Vernon's own blood son, the bane of his legacy, has failed to attend, while his despised nephew by marriage sits before his coffin, draped in black. Perhaps that will make clear the emotional perspective Mr. Dursley has left behind for us to examine."

The slender man, cloaked in shadows, stroked the glossy lid of Vernon's mahogany coffin before setting it aflame. "May his stay in Hell torment his gray soul beyond recognition." Mourners, priest included, gasped with their eyes blown wide, stretching their jaws in a silent scream before the dams to chaos broke. Harry lost sight of the drifting visitor in the sea of black hems and drooping dress socks that rushed away from the white fire, people pouring through the exits without shame. He was almost kicked senseless twice, still in his kneeling position before the crucifix in the rear of the church where he spent the visitation ignored. Dudley's elephant-grade tuxedo hung on his shoulders and pooled around his ankles, his aunt's feeble attempt to hide his deteriorating physique from the public. The feared fire dried the summer sweat on his brow from the other end of the building, having born a heat equaling that of his uncle's new abode. With his back to the savior of the Christian Muggle world, the edges of his mouth tipped upwards, pointing at the lenses of his spectacles, where the reflected flames licked the abundant fat from Vernon Dursley's skeleton.

"Mr. Potter, you seem, dare I say, amused," observed the airy voice beside him. He whipped around to lock eyes with an angel, six wings spanning out from beneath his gentle robes. Their obsidian feathers drank in the hysteria around them, pulsing with a mischievous light with each screech and cry of pain, quieting the air around them. The owner of those wings grinned, his full lips curling to kiss his pointed ears, before he ripped the glasses from Harry's face. Harry jerked backwards to avoid the reach of the angel's knife-like claws as he shot the spectacles into the flames, which ate them with relish. "What ridiculous specs, complete rubbish no matter how you look at them. We shall have to buy you a more fitting pair. Now, now, Mr. Potter, laughing at the dead is a horrid habit to have. Does the Order know of this dark deed, hmm?"

Harry wiped the tears from his eyes, but couldn't cease the maniacal giggles from bursting out of his mouth. He tinged the burning air with laughter that rose into the arches of the church ceiling to contaminate Muggle prayers residing there. At last, Vernon Dursley died by his own hand, a wish he had made from the first beating of his childhood to the moment he wrapped the rope around the walrus' quivering throat. He deceived the authorities with his seemingly harmless frame, fooled them with his large, tear-filled eyes, both brought on by years of malnutrition from the man whose remains now crisped under his visage. Not even his aunt could register the wolfish grin that graced his face whenever she shed a tear for her lost husband. Murder was oh so unlike _the _Harry Potter, despite the punches to the gut, the cracks of leather on his back, and those grubby sausages Dursley called fingers that befouled his body late at night. The rumors passed from mouth to ear about him were but half-believed; those who knew him couldn't see the capacity to kill in his eyes. The soft features given to him by his mother grew to a cruel beauty to sustain the sadistic stare he had inherited from his father. Harry Potter had committed a flawless crime, with society at large giving him an alibi as the Boy-Who-Could-Do-No-Wrong. The sole beings who knew of his deed was himself and the dark angel before him.

"No. They don't know, and I know you're not planning on telling them," he chuckled.

The seraph raised his delicate, silver eyebrow. "Oh? How are you so sure I will not show the world the killer you are?"

"You wouldn't waste your time getting rid of evidence for me if you wanted me in Muggle jail."

"And what of Azkaban?" The air chilled twice over when the smile fell from Harry's lips, leaving the ice of a heart well hardened to sap the warmth from the angel's wings.

"Don't even joke, idiot. You said yourself that you're goddess has yet to take _his_ life, and we both know you'll pay if I'm locked away and can't open his doors for her."

"Hmph," the angel bent his head down to whisper into Harry's ear, nestled deep in his wild hair. "I see I have told you too much as it is; perhaps I could go back and take some of those kind memories away. I am sure you'd enjoy playing with Vernon again, without me here to help, ne?" Harry took a fistful of feathers with him as he yanked himself from the angel's spell, shaking his noxious voice from his mind.

"Shut up! You don't hold the power here, Marlonne, and you should do well to remember that!" Storming out of the funeral parlor, he snarled at the blurred reflection of the angel in the waxed wood of the door. Opening his fist, he let the withered feathers flutter out to litter the carpet the hue of spilled wine behind him. The church had cleared out by now, leaving the crackles of the fire in the throes of death and the stomach-turning stench of scorched flesh to accompany him into the sticky, late August morning. Harry had no time for foolishness, as he had to begin packing for his move to Number 12, Grimmauld Place with no Uncle Vernon to pay the rent of Number 4, Privey Drive. A change of address was but a shift of mind set for him, though, as he was sure the creeping shadows of Black home now under his name worked well for the schemes of the wicked. He had now to plan for the death of one miserly wizard who had long outlived his right to lead the wizarding world against the dark.


	2. Lessons to be Learned

I hate having to edit AGAIN when I post this chappie on the site. Oh well, nothing I can do about it now! Okays, here's the second chapter for your reading pleasure! W00t for Evil Harry!

**Rating**: M, for language, graphic violence, chronic evilness, future HP/DM goodness

**Warning**: SLASH Harry x Draco, Evil/Dark Harry (I wrote 'Slytherin Harry' by accident in the first chappie; sowwy!) Weasley/Granger/Dumbles bashing, OC

**Declaimer**: Yeah, I don't own Harry Potter…like you do! (XP)

**CHAPTER TWO: Lessons to be Learned**

Harry walked in his own company for quite a distance, feet carrying him over soggy, olive grass in the park on Magnolia. The air reeked of sweat and the grubby breeze swirled the stench of summer into a haze that followed him like a halo. The soft padding of his feet on the path to the old swing set complimented the periodic yowls of a stray cat left to wander. He receded into his own thoughts as his body sat itself on the groaning swing, with the metal of the chain links crinkling his black suit jacket. This was where lost wizards and witches spend their time, the plane of clarity that most religions aim to achieve. Mental clarity came with years of subsistence on smarting lashes and quieting the demon that was a shriveled, howling stomach. The legs of the pants dangled past his worn, crimson trainers as he rocked in a bubble of sacred space, with the rheumy-eyed sun watching from above.

_How am I supposed to get close enough to the old relic if that bloody angel decides to hang around Hogwarts? I'm lucky enough that he had the decency to hide his face when he approached Uncle Vernon's coffin. _Harry kicked his feet so far backward, he could see his heels from over his shoulder; the air rushed past to caress his clammy face. _What to do? What to do? Am I supposed to kill him myself…no, Marlonne said She would handle the nitty gritty details. Then, do I just leave the door open…tell Her the password…go deaf when the screaming starts, perhaps? Screaming…huh? _From underneath his eyelashes, he caught the fleck slip in between the hairs of his fringe to rest on his cheekbone. He wiped the spot, but his fingers came away fleck-free; he flicked and picked, but to no avail. The flake remained plastered to his face, no matter how hard he scrubbed at it with the loosened cuff of Dudley's ash gray dress shirt. What was it? Soot from a nearby chimney? _It's the end of summer; who raises a fire in this weather?! _

"My, my, my! I am so glad to have found you, dearest!" Harry's eyebrow twitched a few times before he willed his head to rise and meet the nuisance.

"What do you want, Marlonne?" The grinning man stepped down from the jungle gym a few yards to the right. His landing could be awarded in its silence, as his feet gliding over the tips of the blades of grass. Peeking from underneath the hem of his robes, trembling in excitement, were the young man's slender, onyx wings. In the middle of a park, at the end of summer, late in the morning when the children come out to play, the seraph had the nerve to stroll along where a stiff wind could expose him and incite a holy crusade…again. With each step he took towards Harry, a new feather gleamed in the odd light that originated from the shadows of the angel's cloak. The teenage wizard sucked his teeth, scowling promises of pain to those wings that seem to laugh at him, enjoy his resentment, and bend towards his flushed face, red from rubbing. In ill-contained shivers, the angel ruffled his wings beneath his clothes, smirking down at him from a foot away.

"So cold, Mr. Potter. And here I thought you would be delighted to see me. I am sure the urge to throw your arms around me and nuzzle my bosom is driving you mad. Well, I am here to embrace your huddled form in its entirety! "

"Tch. Poofter." Harry continued to swing, taking care to launch his foot at Marlonne's face, though he missed it by a fraction of a hair. He swayed back down to earth, ready to dismount, when eager hands caught hold of the seat and pushed him into the air. He gasped, looking into the fatigued sun before snapping his head around to glare at the culprit. "Marlonne, don't do that again!"

"Ha!" Harry shot skyward once more, higher than the last push and led by an imperceptible wind that whipped raven hair into his eyes. He shouted at the angel below, but the latter crooned in joy and joined him in the air. "You make it seem so fun, Mr. Potter! Yes, keep shouting and it'll lift you higher! Higher!" Crying in a falsetto, the elder man abandoned his robes and vaulted over Harry's hairline and out of view. It was when the weightlessness kicked in that Harry dared to look down, greeted with the sight of the ground a hundred years away. Then came the drop.

"Marlonne!"

"Oh, come now; don't be a bore. You were born to be up here, flying that is. Isn't it simply orgasmic?"

"I'm falling!"

"Aren't we all? Tumbling down to Earth, staining the ground with our juices…"

"Wha-What the bloody hell are you on about?! I'm going to DIE, DAMMIT!"

"Fly!"

"I can't!"

"You have done so before, darling!"

"I WAS ON A BROOM, YOU PISSY GIT!"

"You should watch your temper, boy. The ground is a long way down and rushing to meet you."

"MARLONNE!" Up and down exchanged sentiments as Harry spiraled to hell, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes. Profanities replaced plans as the grass seemed quite a bit less yielding when viewed from a diminishing altitude. "MARLONNE, HELP ME!" A sharp tug plucked him from his descent, muting the booming of the wind in his ears. The stinging chill left his bones and the shreds of the suit jacket was ripped away by the currents. Harry spun around, seeing a flash of black wings in his peripheral vision and snatched a few, dangling plumes from them. A flash of searing pain met his action with tearing skin and the burn of fresh blood. Gritting his teeth, he suppressed a yelp as to not encourage the chuckling angel beside him to laugh any harder. The throbbing of the open wound didn't subside until he collapsed between the empty swings. The wobbling of his knees shook the wings spouting out his back in a fountain of purest white. His chest heaved, before tightening and caving in on itself in a massive sigh.

"Oh, Mr. Potter, you are a fortune in my gray little world. It seems that you have torn out your own plumage like the silly bird you are." Marlonne drifted to inspect the wound, stroking the sensitive area around it, then gripping the bleeding gash and forcing Harry to his feet. Ignoring his wails, the superior angel went on to reach into his pocket and extract a sea green bottle. He read the tag and nodded, a quick jerk of the head, though he failed to appear serious with the smirk curled in the corner of his mouth. "Yes, this potion is for you to drink. See?" Harry squinted his watery eyes and saw the words reading **HARRISON JAMES POTTER **with the tails of the "r"s firing off the edge of the plain, white label in emerald ink. "Gulp it down to the last drop, or else the pain will never leave." He didn't need to be told twice. Downing the contents of the bottle, he cried out from the stretching of his abdominal muscles, the gnawing vacancy below his lungs. A wet grinding grated against his eardrum, inducing a migraine that blinded him for a moment before he was blessed with a loss of consciousness. Seconds later, though, he was brought back by the most horrifying orgasm he had ever felt in his sixteen years; there was no pleasure, but a soul-crushing flaccidity that was followed by numbness.

"W-what…is…!" Harry hacked into his palms; wings sagging over him, he gaped at the viscous blood that oozed from his nose and mouth. He coughed it up in rhythm with Marlonne's light pats on his shoulder; he expelled the last of the gel onto the wilting grass. He sat shaking after the final glob of blood sunk into the ground, clawing at his own stomach with Marlonne's sterling locks in his fist.

"Ah, the potion has done its job as described to me—how fortunate for both of us. There is not a place in the world that would protect me from the Lady if you had died just then."

"What…," Harry groaned. "What have you done to me?"

"Nothing at all," he purred. "It hurts that you would accuse me of such malicious intent as to harm. Youwere always like this, underneath all the glamour you have had to live with, birdie." The angel coaxed Harry's tired hand from his hair, lifting the Boy-Who-Lived from the pool of his own vomit. Grimacing at the sight, he encompassed himself and his charge in the fold of his wings, turning day into night in the clear park. "Today a lucky star has smiled on us, with the lack of Muggles about. On second thought, I should have taken this encounter to a more private location…oh dear, please refrain from scratching my chest—it stings."

"E-expl-plain, you basta—"

"Uh, uh! Naughty words make for a mouth full of soap, Mr. Potter." Marlonne opened the cocoon of hushed serenity offered by his wings to reveal the doorstep of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Being carried in his arms, they entered the house, where dust settled uninterrupted. The sun was setting in the west when Harry glanced through a grimy window pane as they passed the living room. _Already? _Up the stairs, to the right, through the doorway, and onto the bed, he complained in undertones about the glare from the ancient light bulbs looming overhead. Smirking, the older angel left the lights on until the protests grew to annoying levels. Soon, Harry lay on top of the coarse sheets of the bedroom, staring at Marlonne as if he was a monstrosity asking to be slain. "That is quite the frightening face, birdie. You should fix it."

"T-tell me what you did to me."

"I said 'fix your face.' Do that and I shall inform you on the details of your little ordeal."

"Little…wow." Harry worked to flatten his scowl. The pallid youth, covered in rust-colored stains that boomed on an ashen, tattered shirt, blinked blank, gemstone eyes. Waiting.

Marlonne bit back a gasp and beamed at the raven-headed savior. "…Mr. Potter…"

"No. I ask the questions."

"Of course."

"What did you do to me?"

"Nothing."

"Stop lying." Harry's face remained as smooth as marble.

"I am telling the truth as if you were my Goddess in flesh and bone. I have done nothing to you. It was the target that has made the alterations, Harry."

"Don't say my name."

"Fine, but you are asking all the wrong questions…" His eyelids drooped for a moment, a yawn muddling his speech.

"Then…what happened to me?"

"Now that is a great question! Mr. Potter, are you aware of the existence of daemons?"

"Demons? Like, from hell or something?"

"No, daemons, as in wolves in sheep's clothing, so to speak. Simply put, we are people who have been born from animals instead of humans. The population of witches and wizards has multiplied by the dozens since the time of Merlin, and the affect of the excess magic is animal-born people. Without a doubt, we have the traits of our parents and ancestors, hence the existence werewolves and centaurs."

"So…you're _not _an angel?" Marlonne's chuckles lightened the shadows while his wings dragged them back down.

"Goodness, no; as if the angels exist in this world! Ha! I admire your ability to remain innocent in your corruption."

"Who says I'm corrupted?" A fine eyebrow rose on the non-angel's face.

"Oh? Shall I remind you of your contract with my Lady, hmm?"

"Wait. How do daemons relate to you poisoning me?"

"I have no need to use poison or cowardly tricks to vanquish my foes." The smile never left his lips. "Please comprehend that, if I wanted to kill you, you would be dead. As for the correlation between you and daemons…well, the appendages on your back should answer that." At the mention, Harry's wings shimmered in the dark, releasing the light they had managed engulf in the park.

"…" No more questions penetrated the velvet shadows for a while, the only sounds being the beating of two hearts, one lazy in its tempo, and the other almost undetectable. "Three more questions."

"Hmm?"

"I have three more questions…then I'm done."

"Please go on."

"…Why didn't I know about this? If it's my own body, then—"

"How were you unaware that you were a wizard for eleven years?"

"I lived with Muggles, who didn't tell me a thing. Dumbledore didn't even send a damn letter 'till the last minute."

"There is the answer to your question."

"Ah. Erm...how did I change…exactly?"

"Exactly?"

"Yeah."

"I suppose you became bird-like; my guess would be that you are descended from a snowy owl. Your bones hollowed out, then rebuilt themselves. Your diaphragm most likely disappeared, so your sternum keep must have grown to work your body like a billows. Hmm, I would say, based on your aversion to light, that your eyes grew bigger, as your brain did to work them. The digestive system has to have changed considerably, and I'm afraid your little brother has left the building."

"Eh?" The memory of the numbness returned full force. "Oh, bugger! You can't be serious!"

"I wish I wasn't. I am the son of a peregrine falcon, and I feel your loss with fervor," he mumbled, most of his humor falling to his feet in an instant. "I understand that this can be a dodgy subject, and I am willing to avoid it for both your comfort and mine."

With that, Marlonne rose from his chair and took off out of the bedroom window, leaving Harry to fall victim to fatigue.

**22:51 pm, S Manor in Toulouse, France **

The candied whispers flung themselves from the jade canopy above, the scent of clouds pregnant with rain washing over the four travelers. The thud of Marlonne's body assaulting the ground sent the rodents into their holes. A caramel-skinned hand reached down to grab him by his dangling hood, while a glossy smirk shined under blood-red bangs.

"So he done turned, huh?"

"Hmph," scoffed a voice from over her left shoulder. "An owl daemon of all things has to save our world from Old Riddle. This day and age is for the dogs when it comes to training the hero."

"The boy didn't even call us to kill his uncle for him; he just wanted to make sure he wasn't caught." The petite girl's soft words rang through the room, soothing the panting of the dark-winged messenger. "Potter is a formidable adversary, Dee. Be careful around him."

"I know a smart ass when I see one, Marlonne, so ya better watch him. I ain't gonna stand for back talk from nobody, nowhere, no way. Ya best keep him in check."

"Y-yes, my Lady."

"Diosa."

"What ya want, babe?"

"When are we goin' to meet this Harry kid anyway?"

"September 1st. It's hard not to bump into the fool; he always be trickin' death like he someone important! S'bout time that boy get it straight that I ain't one to be messed with."


	3. Control

**Hello one and all! Welcome to the Messed Up Circus of Shroom Trips, where all your nightmares come true! Yeah, so here is a tidbit to clear things up: most birds besides ducks and geese are missing the frank to the beans, if you catch my drift. Harry's lil' bro is not coming back, but he and his lover get to do just about everything else. This is anyway, so it's not like I can go into detail of them doin' the deed! Just…use your imagination! ******** Ok, on with the story! Besides, I didn't say that Draco was missing equipment…**

**Rating**: M, for language, graphic violence, chronic evilness, future HP/DM goodness

**Warning**: SLASH Draco x Harry, Evil/Dark Harry, Weasley/Granger/Dumbles bashing, OC

**Declaimer**: You wish I owned Harry Potter, but I don't. So HA!

**CHAPTER THREE: Control**

"_Let it be washed away…"_

_Harry's reflection in the dishwater lake smiled back at him, emerald eyes glinting. He felt his cheeks stretch his dry lips across his face until the skin on them cracked, rubies falling from the splits. Darting his tongue out from between his fangs, he tasted the rust and salt of his own blood. The aftertaste was a tang of spice on the back of his throat and made him smile wider. His skin glowed in the dawning sunlight, a plane of white that ran down over his slim thighs, his hairless legs, and his bare feet buried in hoary sand. Ebony locks tickled his shoulders and flew in the freshwater breeze._

_"Let it be washed away…"_

_His shoulders tensed at a sudden gasp and he jumped to his feet, not remembering when he sat down. Following the gasp came the coughing, the gagging, the cries, the pleas, the begging…he knew this symphony well. Inching his head over his shoulder, he spotted the familiar pair a ways down the sand bar. He saw the hulking mass with fat that rolled down to the man's toes, topped with a sprinkle of gray hair. The walrus was on his knees, overwhelming the toddler in his clutches into the man's favorite position: ass up. The screams grew louder with a rough thrust, the warbling voice crying for someone, anyone, to wake him up from this reoccurring nightmare. His tormentor laughed and kept the boy planted so he could finish his business before the wife came home. _

"_Let it be washed away…"_

_Must hurry this up. Will this brat ever shut his trap? _

"_Far away…"_

_No one cares if _you _of all people like it, freak._

"_To the ocean…"_

_Your foul mother was just as much a whore as you! _

"_Where the water is cold…"_

_TAKE WHAT YOU DESERVE! _

"_Let it be washed away." _

_Feathers fell like snowflakes around him, around them, and floated on the water's mirror surface. The ripples distorted his features, bending his face, twisting his smile, sending waves down his pearl skin. His vision went colorless, the contact of the taut rope and his gloved hands setting his mind into dead focus. Harry's approach was hushed by the yield of his spanning wings and allowed him to stride with head held high. The man's supporting arms hid most of the toddler's face, but not the wide, dark-ringed eyes. Crystal tears dripped from a fan of dark lashes and were sucked into the sand grinding into his phantom knees. Harry couldn't help growling when he saw his own terror, and alerted his uncle to his presence, but he held back his fist from pummeling that _face_. That crinkled brow, with sweat pouring down his sideburns, heated with exertion and those perverted sensations that festered in his loins. _

"_Let it be washed away."_

"**Putrid."**

_What the deuce are you doing here, boy?! DIDN'T I TELL YOU NOT TO DISTURB ME UNLESS I CALL FOR YOU?!_

"**Disgusting."**

_Well, now that you're here, there's stress relief to be done. It's my doctor's order._

"**Filthy." **

_Don't just stand there! Drop them!_

"**Just a moment, sir."**

_What do you think you're doing? W-AH! AHHHHH! NO! STOP!_

"**Just a moment; I promise."**

_ST-AHHHGHH! I C-CAN'T—AACK…_

_Harry tied the rope to the brass doorknob, and sat in the sand with his arms wrapped around his bent knees. Above him was the scene that met his dearest Aunt Petunia at 3:45 p.m., August 29__th__. He had chosen a rope long enough to dangle his uncle an inch off the floor, the prospect of touching ground just out of reach. Vernon's neck was curved to the left, broken. His tongue lolled out from beneath his scraggly mustache with a string of drool slithering down his many chins. His eyes were open and his irises were drawn up into his skull, displaying burst blood vessels. The groan of protest from the rope holding him up coupled well with the thump of his swaying feet on the mahogany study desk. Sighing, Harry flexed his wings, fingering the bandage on his self-inflicted wound near the edge of the right one. In the past, the rest of the Dursleys clambered out of the family car in the driveway, slamming the doors and clucking about. Screaming out of window, he was sure his voice carried down Privey Drive, waking babies from afternoon naps for blocks. He could still hear the wails. _

"_Shh, baby, don't cry." The chorus of shrieks blended into one, ear-splitting howl. _

"**Hmm?" **

"_Now, now, be happy. The pain gonna stop soon, so soon you won't…even…feel it." Silence. "Ah, that's my little man." _

"**Where are you?"**

"_Shush it. You'll wake the baby." The woman's voice was rough yet soothing with an American accent, reprimanding him from behind. "I see why ya here. That's quite a work of art."_

"**Where am I?" **

"_Quiet, I said! Geez, ya must talk in ya sleep. That happens when ya first get here, but ya get used to it. I snooze like, well, a baby."_

"**Tell me where I am."**

"_Turn around." _

"Harry! Rise and shine, mate!"

"_Oh! Looks like it's time."_

"**What about you? What about the baby?"**

"Harry, wake up! We have to be off!"

"Do you think something's wrong with him?"

"_Ya gonna see me again befo' long. Take the time to know my face, though. Turn around." She was close to the point of breathing down his neck. He spun on his heel right as he was snatched off the shore and into the sky. All he caught was a flash of green eyes, just like his own. "Catch ya later, kid." _

**09:56 a.m., Number 12, Grimmauld Place **

The first thing he saw when he woke up was a bed full of ginger, pink and fresh. Then he noticed the Weasleys observing him from the corner of his eye as if they expected a heart-felt acceptance speech for the aforementioned ginger. They waited…one blink…two blinks…

"Erm…good morning, all."

"Yes! That's right! A bloody good morning it is!" His gangly best friend burst forth from the sea of his siblings, laughing his freckles off like it was the best morning of his life. "_Thank _you, Harry, for saying that, since there is _nothing _to bring down this great day!"

"Ronald!" Mrs. Weasley rushed up to Harry with a basket of filled with assorted fruits, bags of herbs, and boxes upon boxes of breakfast tea. Putting on a duly concerned face, the plump woman rearranged his nest of pillow hair, muttering under her breath. After a few moments of messing around with his head, she gave up in a huff and took to sorting through the basket for the appropriate fruit. She turned back to him, handed him an apple with a gentle smile. Then, on a second thought, she gave him a peck on the forehead,her eyes brimming with tears. "Harry, dear, are you okay?"

"Uh…yes, ma'am. I'm fine?" This answer led to a smothering embrace amidst her paisley scarves and red curls. Once she pulled away, Hermione ran forward and threw him into another hug, her mane of brown frizz crashing into his nose. With a sob and a sneeze, they were separated by Ginny's wave of squeezes and condolences. Then, just when he thought he was free, the range of Weasley brother's bar Ron took to patting his back and rubbing his shoulders with grim countenances. "Are you all alright in the head?"

"Yeah, what's wrong with you guys? It was his _Uncle Vernon _for goodness' sake! We should be celebratin', now that Old No-Neck is out of the picture!"

"Ron!" Hermione pinched his ear before Mrs. Weasley could reach it and dragged him off to the corner in a hurry. The Weasleys crowded around them without fail, offering words of comfort and soft smiles.

"_Ron, have you no sense of sensitivity?!"_

"_Why be sensitive? We all know that whole lot of Muggles is a bunch of—OUCH! What?!"_

"_Don't speak ill of the dead, Ronald Weasley, or so help me I'm leaving you!"_

"_Over Harry's late uncle?! That has nothing to do with us!"_

"_Well, would you like it if Harry said nasty things about your uncle?"_

"_I don't have an uncle."_

"_Oh don't be childish! You know very well that you have an uncle—"_

"_Don't bring that guy into this. If he were to die, the world would have one less f—"_

"_Don't! Listen, this is about Harry, not your family. Just get over your own prejudices for once and understand that your best friend is grieving right now. His uncle goes and hangs himself right after his godfather died, and he has to live in this horrid place because you're family didn't want to house him."_

Harry pulled out of their conversation then, cringing at what he'd gathered. He was supposed to track his target's communications through any means necessary, but that was too much information for so early in the morning. He knew that Dumbledore had spoken with the Weasleys in a private meeting the day before he moved into Grimmauld Place, but not the subject of the discussion. He had hoped that it would reveal the whereabouts of the headmaster—a few clues, at least—but not that it had concerned him and Vernon's "suicide".

_And what's all this about the Weasleys not wanting me to live in the Burrow?_

"…_bledore's absence will mess with his head once he finds out."_

"_Then we won't tell him."_

"_That much is obvious! We don't want him any more emotional, with You-Know-Who still looking for him. Just don't mention anything troubling around him. I don't think he could take it right now."_

"I'm 'emotional', not deaf. I can hear every word you two are saying over there." The couple's whispered conversation stopped, as well as the post-funeral eulogies the Weasleys were spewing. A room full of brown eyes gawked at his casual grin and raised eyebrow. Brushing the frozen gingers out of his way, he strode to Ron and Hermione's corner wearing naught but the gray dress shirt and tube socks. He was a great deal shorter than both of them but towered over the entire room in his confidence. "I don't mind if I have to live here; I like having my own house. I do whatever I want to it and in it. Isn't that right, Mistress Black?"

The company twitched, but no screeching could be heard through the paper-thin walls of the Black home. The lack of noise, however, was filled with the beating hearts, the shallow breathing, and the tiny rumble of muscles in wrists and necks. Harry could hear them.

"Have any of you ever wondered why I have such an…unpredictable temper? Hmm? Anyone at all?" Ginny made to speak but clamped her mouth shut at his sharp glare. "It's because I feel you staring at me when you think I'm not looking. I hear you talk about me when you think I'm not listening. Does that disturb _anyone _in this room? Huh? 'Cause I know it drives me up a fucking wall." The tempo of beats and breaths hitched than sky-rocketed, the two pairs of eyes before him focusing on anything except their grinning friend. "I'm glad you all are okay with that. Oh, and you know what, thanks for bringing up Sirius, 'Mione; that'll make my day_ much_ better." _Three… two...one…_

"H-harry, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I-I…we…"

"Hey, don't bring me into this!"

"Ron, are you serious?! You whisper about your so called 'best friend' just as much as anyone, if not more!"

"That's pure bollocks! Harry, mate, don't take in a word of what she says! She's completely off her rocker!"

"WHAT?!"

"YOU FILTHY BLOOD TRAITORS!"

"It seems the lady of the house heard you," Harry smirked.

"COMING TO STEAL MY FORTUNE! HOW DARE YOU DESECRATE MY HOME WITH YOUR BARBARIC HOOVES! YOU BRING IN THE MUD OF YOUR RAT HOLES TO INFEST MY DOMAIN WITH YOUR STENCH! OUT! OUT! IT WAS YOU WHO HAVE BESMIRCHED MY FAMILY NAME WITH YOUR ENDLESS BETRAYAL! MAY YOUR CHILDREN ROT IN THE DEPTHS OF DARKNESS—"

Her words her muffled by the wisp of her curtains closing, and a gentle humming calmed her spiteful rant. The melody was hummed in a man's deep voice, one who took his dear time climbing the stairs from the ground floor to the third. Stairs rasping with his footsteps, the man then knocked on the door, courteous. Harry strolled through the shocked redheads and opened the door for a certain, silver-haired acquaintance. Marlonne beamed down at him from under the brim of his fedora, nodding at the apple in the younger man's hand.

"That looks delicious, love. I am positive you do not want it, though."

"Positivity's for fools, and enough with the pet names, you arse."

"You cease your name calling, and I shall cease mine, Mr. Potter."

Marlonne glided into the room reminiscent of an alley cat, having replaced robes for a black, leather trench coat and black slacks. The layers of dark colors contrasted with the faint flush on his cheekbones and the cutting, ice blue irises that Harry hadn't noticed in their previous encounters. His hands were gloved in dark leather as well, though the scarf clinging to his shoulders was a rose red. More than the day before, Marlonne blended in as a startling sight of a man, instead of a war-inciting angel of death. Someone in the room cleared a throat, snapping Harry out of his trance and drawing his attention to a nervous father. Arthur Weasley stumbled forward by a swift shove from his wife and straightened his hunched back.

"Harry, my boy, I—"

"Yes, Mr. Weasley, what is it?"

"Eh? Oh, yes, well. I believe we should postpone your friend's visit for another time while we have a little talk."

"Oh," smiled Marlonne, looking from Harry to Mr. Weasley. "Did I interrupt something? I apologize for being so rude as to break up an important family discussion, what with the death of his uncle on our minds."

"H-how did you know about Vernon Dursley's death, sir?"

"Me?" Marlonne removed his hat and combed through his bangs with a contemplative hand. "Nowhere else than from Mr. Potter, if I memory serves me right. Is that not correct, dear heart?"

"_NO _nicknames, Marlonne. Yes, I called you right after it happened."

"Ah! Now I remember. You had wanted some consolation and happened to have my number in your pocket. My heart broke and I had no other thought than to comfort my dearest little Harry." Marlonne took advantage of Harry's silence and lifted him into his arms, gentle enough not to bruise, but tight enough to keep him still. One arm supporting his thighs, and another around his waist, he cradled Harry in his embrace like he was holding a precious child. Once Marlonne pressed his wild raven-head into the crook of his neck, the Boy-Who-Lived appeared before his company as the helpless orphan boy they thought he was. "That night comes to me in the most vivid of images, the clearest of sounds. I can still feel your warm tears on my cheek, your fists on my chest. The thought _murders _me from the inside! Leave, red-headed visitors and friend! Can you not see the poor boy is in pain?"

The argument held well that Harry was in agony, as he was curled into a ball in Marlonne's long arms. His face was buried in his clothed shoulder and his own physique shook with racking sobs. The savior hissed "Why me? _Why me?!" _multiple times, and by the time the non-angel placed him on top of his mussed bedspread, he was covering his own ears hard enough to pop an eardrum. The Weasleys and Hermione left without another word and eased the door shut behind them. When they crept out of the front door, careful not to wake the mistress, Harry had launched himself at his single guest's chest. Pounding into it with blind intent to _destroy_, he failed to notice the second person slip through the bedroom window. The next moment, he was flying into the opposite wall, wings splayed behind him in a sudden reappearance. He landed in a pyramid of gift baskets, and then hopped back up, swearing and seething, his eyes on the coughing man on his floor.

"THAT WASN'T THE STORY WE AGREED ON! I NEVER CRIED FOR THAT BASTARD!"

"-cough-We had to make my appearance less-cough, cough-conspicuous. I used the tactic of 'close family' friend instead of-hack- the vague 'relative' cover you offered. My apologies if it appeared more intimate than I had thought."

"I'M GOING TO _RIP _YOUR WINGS OFF!"

"Oh, yes, because you are so adept at ripping wings. Do tell me how that plays out for you."

"Shut it up, both of ya."

For the first time, Harry noticed the second new comer to the room, lounging on his bed. She dropped her weight on her elbows, leaning back with her legs crossed on over the other. A few strands of auburn hairs hung down from her military fatigue cap that matched her baggy shorts with a beige, sleeveless undershirt that fit complimented her curves. Her bare, brown shoulders were tattooed with thin stripes, down her arms, to disappear under rough, worker's gloves. Her calves had the same stripes, which stopped on the sides in a ribbed pattern on each shin, ending off in a pair of heavy-soled construction boots. The most captivating feature was her gemstone green eyes, bright with amusement where his own were with rage. She was—

"My Lady."


	4. Building the Web

**Yeah, so, my computer is acting trippy so I'm gonna have to switch it up. NEW P.O.V.! Meet the other characters of the story and read on for the sake of entertainment! HOHOHOHOHOHOHO! Yup, I loves me some plot bunnies. Oh, and don't be shy with the reviews: they help clean up the story! W00t, W00t! **

**Rating**: M, for language, graphic violence, chronic evilness, future HP/DM goodness

**Warning**: SLASH Draco x Harry, Evil/Dark Harry, Weasley/Granger/Dumbles bashing, OC

**Declaimer**: I DON'T OWN HARRY POTTER OR ITS PLOT OR ITS CHARACTERS OR ANYTHING ELSE OF IMPORTANCE!!!!!

**CHAPTER FOUR: Building the Web **

Severus Amadeus Snape was a seasoned professor, a master in the art of Potions and Rune Interpretation, and one of the Dark Lord's veteran Death Eaters. He had gained tenure at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, one of the most prestigious magical schools available. Professor Snape had been working on the opposing sides of the two most powerful wizards ever recorded for the better part of _two decades _while managing not to lose any major limbs or bodily functions. All in all, he was a well-experienced man—reasonable, if a bit spiteful, and prepared to tackle almost any situation. Almost. Due to some twisted crime he _must've _committed in a past life, he was now faced with a most taxing quest.

"Mr. Malfoy, give me the bottle," he repeated for the umpteenth time. His god son glared in his general direction from the other end of the table, knees bunched up to his chest. He shook his platinum blond head in irregular, jerking motions before dropping his forehead to his knee in a pained groan. "Cease this childish behavior and _give it to me. _Your mother awaits your arrival and you cannot be seen coddling firewhiskey, for goodness sake." The patrons of the desolate pub sent curious glances over their shoulders, though the majority of social drinkers had long since lost interest. Severus had been standing in the grimy booth for an hour, but the young heir was no closer to relinquishing his spot. The kerosene lamps hissed in the background, with smokers' coughs and grumbles for more drinks dressing the lazy quiet. In a frustrated huff, the professor grabbed a hold of the bottle's neck and ripped it from the young man's grasp. Draco sprung up after it, clawing and grunting, flailing his arms about in a drunken tantrum. Dragging the boy behind him, Severus slammed the amber bottle onto the counter with enough force to crack the bottom. Then, in a rasp of robes, he exited, snapping at his charge and sending two chairs toppling over. The bartender didn't bat an eyelash as she tucked the bottle away under the counter.

"Come again," she called to the back of the boy's head. "You're payin' the bills for this place."

The man she was serving raised a bushy eyebrow, mouth downturned under his graying beard. "Y'know that lad?"

"Who, him? Yeah, he comes around once in a bit—drinks me dry, he does. I have to restock my cellar ev'ry week or so, now that he's seventeen n'all."

"Y'don' say." The man took a huge gulp from his glass, belching with relish before requesting a refill. "Un'r age n' you's sellin' 'im the strong stuff like it's candy? Ain't worried 'bout the Min'stry gettin' a hold 'a this place, I figure?"

"They have no business this far out in East Merlin Nowhere. All there's to be arrested are petty thieves n' poor sons like that boy who figure the world's too big n' too bad. Those kids think liquor can wash it all away."

"Liquor can do lots of things in this here world. Why y'think I'm here? It's t'drink m'self dumb; tha's why!"

"Yeah, yeah! Yer quite the role model, ain't ya? Haha!"

"Ah, shaddup!"

A few yards down the road, near the brush of the woods, Draco took his time in washing his mouth out in a tavern's rain barrel. Beside him, his godfather stood and watched him until his shoulders shook with sobs. Once his wave of nausea subsided, he continued on the packed dirt path, into the trees, with Snape's shadow on the train of his cloak. When he tried to fill the agitated silence, his gag reflex halted his progress from one syllable to two. Unfortunately, Severus's name consisted of a whole _three _syllables, as if the universe conspired against him. Leaving the lights and smog of the sinners' town, he struggled to work more than one muscle at a time. After twenty minutes of strolling, vomiting, and fiddling with the clasp of his cloak, his head was suddenly floating above his shoulders. That was when the giggling kicked in—each twitch in the professor's cheek, each fly away hair tickling his nose became amusing. Comical. Hilarious...Heart-breaking. Tears stung and the corners of his eyes, his feet dragged, heat spread from his liver to his ears. A pair of tedious hands eased him down onto a boulder and pet his hair like his mother would.

"W-Wh-Why – _sob _– why...d-do—" He traded speaking for letting the tears fall of their own free will.

Severus curled his lip, furrowed his brow, let his eyes fall blank, but nothing could keep the tremor from his fingers as the brushed through the young boy's hair. He patted his head with finality, and he raised his head to see the shadows in the frown lines on his elder's face. "You must end this habit. Look at you: a Malfoy, a man of pride and pure blood, reverted to a common drunkard. Whatever drove you to—" The blond head in his hands shook wildly from left to right, refusing to listen. "No. Listen. This is the final time I have to drag you from that tavern."

"Fine." His voice was hoarse and worn, much too old to belong to a seventeen year old boy. However, he knew this resolute tone, with his face downturned – Draco had a point to make and nothing was going to stop him. "Look for me in an inn, with a whore in the bed and a wand to my temple."

"_Don't _speak like that! Your – "

"My _father _wouldn't give a damn and a half for what I did with myself, as long as his Lord is appeased."

Severus sighed, bopping him on the back of his head. "I was talking about your mother, you twit. Her heart would never stop breaking if you're not willing to change."

"I-I'm not. I can't...change." It would be too real if he did: the Mark on his forearm would burn with the ire of a devil's scorned lover and with twice the persistency; his father's angry shouts would bellow from the crevices of Malfoy Manor and wake the spiders in their webs; his mother's tired gaze would look to him with the dimming hope that hadn't decency enough to snuff itself out all at once. Why didn't they leave him be?! No one asked him if he wanted any of these damned responsibilities! They should have kept all of the Malfoy family secrets in the library, among the books too caked in dust for him to wrestle from the shelves! "They never should've said _anything to me._"

"About what, may I ask? Up until yesterday you were perfect with where you came from and what you are. Most families in this day and age, who know anything worth their lives, dream to have your blood in their veins."

"Then let them take it! I don't _want _to be this _thing!_" He slumped, face in his hands, the last of his tears dripping form between his fingers. The back and arms of his robes fell free from their stitching without a sound, and gave his emerging dragon wings room to spread. The tendons cracked after days of being locked in place and the royal purple pair of appendages stretched luxuriously despite their owner's defeated disposition. Now set free, he left them to flap of their own accord, testing the veined membrane, the scales glistening in the moonlight. Disgusted, Draco attempted to force them to fold, but they stuck straight up and remained rigid until he gave up. Reaching to scratch his still-flushed ears, he felt them protrude from his head and end in a point, giving him the appearance of a human-sized house elf. His pupils dilated to the size of a Knut, with thin bands of silver around them being his irises, and the veil of darkness lifted from the scene before him.

Every leaf was shown in grating detail, as he could see the thermals of the life around him, mostly gentle blues and dark greens until he laid eyes on Severus. The man was a fireworks display of flaring reds and bleeding oranges with a pulsing center the color of lemon skin. Cursing, he squeezed his eyes shut, but the damage had been done. He had seen it, all the heat, the _life, _that radiated off the human's body, calling. _One quick bite...human blood is a wonderful taste. Once experienced, it cannot be forgotten...the most intoxicating liquor of all..._

No! Not 'human', 'Severus'! This was his godfather he was talking about, the man who taught him how to fly a broom, helped him with his first potion, and treated him like they were the same—

_You're not the same! Who are you trying to fool with that lie?! _

"N-no..."

_Look at yourself! There in that puddle, right at your feet, your big taloned feet! _

"S-s-stop it..."

_See that? That's what a nightmare looks like! All scales and fangs like the _beast _that you are! _

"Stop!"

_Your mum hates you, you know that? She's ashamed to having given birth to such a hideous—_

"Shut up!"

_HEHEHEHEHEHEE! ARE YOU _CRYING_?! YOU'RE WEAK! WEAK! USELESS! _

"Shut—"

_YOU CAN _NEVER _PROTECT YOUR MUM FROM THE DARK LORD! SHE'S GOING TO _DIE _FOR YOU, DRAKIE! _

"UP!" Draco whipped his wand from the midst of his travelling robes. Before Severus's brain could process what happened, the younger man fired a jet of poisonous green magic at his reflection. The Killing Curse rebounded off the surface of the puddle, reducing the water to vapor, and hurtled toward the shocked castor.

He didn't even have a spare moment to hear his second father shout his name when the impact of the curse blew him into the canopy above. Eyes wide, mouth agape, the body of Draco Malfoy was impaled through the chest, the splintered remains of the branch tearing at the surrounding skin and bone. It drizzled blood onto the pale, quivering cheeks of Severus Snape, while he could only stare into those glazed, mercury eyes.

**12:00 a.m., On the Other Side of the Forest**

The blue-haired girl pulled out of her half-conscious trance, fluttering ruby eyes to return moisture to them. Turning, she saw her partner slumped on tree roots, snoozing the night away with his mouth hanging open. She bent over her comrade's sleeping face, focused on her victim—um, friend. A grin twisted onto her child-like face, eyes glinting at the shining opportunity. Perhaps she should stab him awake, or leave him to be gnawed on by wild dogs. Perhaps dropping spiders into his throat until he woke up screaming...or choked to death; it was a win-win situation. She could go with the classic "dump-burning-animal-droppings-on-his-head" approach: both sadistically amusing and fool-proof.

Reaching around behind him, careful not to wake him, she plucked a hair from his sleeping tail. He leaped from his spot, howling like a newborn, petting his beloved tail. Growling, he glared Hell at his insensitive companion while she hid her grin behind a tiny hand.

"Why did Marlonne have to go and stick me with _you_?! Quit all that smilin'!"

"Stay awake next time. It's not like we have to sleep."

"You ain't _no _type of cute, I swear!" They both snapped their heads to the northeast, where the wind alerted them with the scent of blood. The amiable atmosphere flew away with the nocturnal birds of prey, the gravity of the situation bringing them down to earth. With sober expressions, they shared a knowing look and the younger girl pulled out an ornate hand mirror from the black ruffles of her skirts. Channeling magic into the glass in a stream of blue electricity, she peered at the scene before her in befuddled silence before handing the mirror off to her partner. He took it with a raised eyebrow and looked into himself before chuckling lightly. "Hey, Diosa, what's happenin' over there?"

The woman threw a smirk over her shoulder, pulling off her cap to let her deep red hair fall in waves. "Yo, Osen, baby! Nuffin' much over here, just the new kid tryin' to off Marlonne for gettin' to touchy-feely. How's it with the Malfoy boy?"

"What d'ya think is up with him? It ain't a birthday party, I can tell you that much."

"Damn, dead already?" She scratched her head between twitching tiger ears and turned fully to the vanity mirror. Osen caught a glimpse of a room full of black and white feathers and a wall of strangled yelps, growls and what could've been wild insults if he strained his pierced ears. The girl across from him giggled at the chaos while he held back another chuckle. "Well, send Yuki after'm and _don't _forget body. Aiden'll have a fit if I ask'm to make another one from scratch before the start of the school year."

"I'm on it, Mistress," Yuki confirmed, taking a calming breath. Her swallowtail butterfly wings unfolded like delicate artwork and she took off into the air, sapphire pigtails fluttering behind her until she disappeared into the canopy of trees in the distance.

"Osen," ordered Diosa, face stern for once. "I wanna know why you're not here helpin' Marlonne like I _told _you." The sight of her pupils thin to slits made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. However, he countered the stare with his own, golden one, trained to hold his ground in the face of death.

"It's the way the kid died, Dee: we can't agree on whether it's an accident or suicide."

"It's an accident! Why the hell else would I send Yuki instead of you?!"  
"Yeah, I know, but he pointed the Killing Curse at himself...technic'ly. She says, since he didn't mean to kill himself, it was an accident, but he _did _want to kill himself, I'm thinkin'. So—"

"You. Are. A. _Messener of Death_! Does it look like I give a damn about technicalities! Now ya _both _gotta watch this kid and Marlonne's stuck on Potter _alone. _Do y'_want _him to die?!"

"Well, I mean, think about it: Potter's a murderer and he got Marlonne. It's a match made in Hell. Besides, y'said to make sure they meet, and I heard they already know each other. They'll bring down Dumbledore in no time!" Diosa looked past him for a moment, thinking, until a corner of her mouth quirked upwards.

"Fine. Stay with'm if that's what you wanna do. But y'know I need you to watch Potter, too."

"Yeah, I know. I'll be around there in a few—"

"Nuh-uh. You stay with the Malfoy boy. I'll stay with Potter. We'll meet up at Hogwarts and ya'll can work out somethin' then." Diosa hollered at the avian pair behind her, signaling the end of the conversation. Osen put the mirror in his jeans pocket, staring at the dirt and leaves under his bare feet.

"...Sure. Sounds okay with me."

"I'm back," sang a high, almost innocent voice. Osen spun around, tail curled into his hanging shirt for protection. Yuki landed on the tips of her polished Mary-Janes, holding the limp body of Draco Malfoy in her slender arms with much effort. Draco's face was peaceful and flushed, while his chest moved slowly in languid, relaxed breaths. "His godfather was standing nearby and agreed to a contract in exchange for this boy's life. It's a lucky night for little, ol' me!"

"Yeah, whatever. Bring Malfoy, we headin' to Muggle London." He retold the conversation between himself and Diosa while Yuki stood, frozen to the spot. Her eyes grew wide in near panic and she seemed about ready to drop the formerly-dead Draco Malfoy.

"S-she's making us go back to _school?! _As in uniforms, classes, homework, human _school?! _Why can't we just drop them off?!"

"Ask her later, but I don't think she gonna change her mind no time soon. This gotta be 'bout more than just killin' some grandpa high off his throne. She's callin' in _all _Messengers on this one, and she's watchin' Potter person'ly."

"_School?!_" Yuki's voice hit a new octave that sent the wolves howling in the darkened hills around them and reached Draco through his layers of unconsciousness and caused him to hiss. With an annoyed whine, Osen made a point of holding his sensitive ears against his head and walking southward, toward London. After a few calming breaths, Yuki flew overhead in the same direction, closing the long distance Draco and Harry with each flap of her wings.


	5. Desperation

**Sorry! I know I've sorta abandoned this story but I'm back in it again! I loved my OCs so much I gave them their very own story: totally different plot and all my own ideas! OH YEAH!!! Anywhosenberries, let's get this party re-started! **

**Rating**: M, for language, graphic violence, chronic evilness, future HP/DM goodness

**Warning**: SLASH Draco x Harry, Evil/Dark Harry, Weasley/Granger/Dumbles bashing, OC

**Declaimer**: Why don't I own the plot or characters of Harry Potter, you ask? IT'S BECAUSE THE UNIVERSE SAID SO!

**CHAPTER FIVE: Desperation **

**8:00 a.m., August 31****st****, En Route to Number 12, Grimmauld Place**

"_Come now, boy, wake up," a voice murmured through the thick darkness. Draco tried to open his eyes, but the thickness pressed down on his eyelids, turning even the smallest of muscles to lead. A deep soreness coaxed him into consciousness, sinking into the darkness on his eyelids until it unraveled. The soreness itself spread through the rest of his body, making him light-headed and tickling the inside of his stomach with faint nausea. Groaning, he opened his eyes to the slate of gray clouds above and the gaze of steady, golden eyes. Finding no energy to lean forward, the Malfoy heir laid, arms spread in the sand, locking eyes with the young man next to him. Those eyes were deep set in a sharp, handsome face a shade less pale than his own. The man's dark hair was neatly trimmed, eyebrows slender and there wasn't a hint of a beard to speak of. "Ah, so you've finally awakened, young one." Even his voice was a musical masterpiece, smooth and confident, if not a touch heartbreaking in its weight. It was the voice of regret, where each word was dragged out by the sheer desire to communicate a burden with another creature._

_Draco felt an instant bond with the forlorn young man, and forced himself to his feet, so they could be near eye level. The stranger was a head taller than him, his body given the illusion of being even longer by the robes that draped his shoulders and drifted in the sand. Despite his despair, the man stood with his head held high and his back ramrod straight. "What's," Draco cleared his dry throat. "What is y—" His voice still rasped and rattled out of his mouth. Memories of his drinking binge ran through his head, explaining his severe cotton mouth. _

"_Drink from the lake," the man suggested in understanding tones. "It's as clean as spring water and you'll surely forget your thirst." Nodding, Draco stepped forward with a hand on his throat, and walked to the very edge of the water. Looking down, he froze. His reflection gaped back at him, his silver eyes blazing, a halo of pale blonde hair framing his heart-shaped face, Quidditch-toned body locked in shock. A pair of daemonic, deep amethyst dragon's wings stretched from his shoulder blades, basking in as much of the cool sunlight as they could. "Go on—drink." Draco scrambled towards the palm tree he had been laid under, folding himself up against the trunk and wrapping his wings around himself. "What's this? Surely this isn't the behavior of a Malfoy I'm witnessing." _

"_Where am I?" he whispered hoarsely. _

"_Here," the man replied as if it were the simplest truth in the world._

"_Where is here?!"_

"_Not elsewhere."_

"_Cease these games! Where _am _I? Who're you?"_

_He felt gentle yet firm hands on his wings, peeling open his cocoon, and allowed the man's kind smile to lead him back to the water. Cringing, but determined not to appear weak again, he studied himself with set shoulders. A slight pattern of diamond scales wrapped around his neck and reflected sunlight in a silvery sheen. When he breathed, the soreness encircled his chest in a thin band that hurt most just under his heart. He was tempted to lift his shirt to examine himself, but the calm scent of the stranger behind him reminded him he wasn't alone. Without looking away from himself, he called the man forward with a flick of his rest, a semblance of the Malfoy superiority. _

"_Yes, Draco?"_

"_You never answered my questions, sir. Where am I and what is your name?"_

"_I've told you where you are, whether you were paying attention or not. You're Here, which is neither There nor elsewhere. Here is where the past, present, and future intermingle depending on the soul of the individual."_

"_Then I'm in the present; my soul hasn't degenerated, but it hasn't grown."_

_The man nodded. "It appears as though it is stationary, unaffected by the experiences of the body or mind. You, young Malfoy, are lacking flexibility, a common affliction that's easily cured by—"_

"_No."_

"_...You hardly know what I was going to say."_

"_You were going to say that I can be healed by _change_," he hissed, spitting the word as if it was a hex. "I won't change." They were silent for a few minutes as the man watched the dragon child, while the child continued to watch himself. This new body wasn't hideous, by any means, but he was so unfamiliar with it, so uncertain. He hated the perpetual hunger, the insomnia, the altered vision, the senses, the cravings, EVERYTHING new about this body that he couldn't control. He was the first full-blooded daemon in the Malfoy family since the tenth century. Anyone who could've possibly guided him was dead and all his parents could do for him was smile and revere him as a demigod. All his life he had been treated with caution, was much more than just a son. At school, where no one knew what he was, he was treated like another Slytherin, no better and no worse than the others. No one expected change from him until the Dark Lord rose again and demanded he take the Dark Mark. He saw "potential" in him, saw a "killer" in him, but he wanted no of that! He _knew _his house, his friends and his father expected him to transform into some mighty being when he returned for his sixth year. _"_I won't change," he whispered to no one in particular. _

"_Hm," was all the man said. _

"_You've yet to tell me your name."_

"_I, myself, want no part in change. Unfortunately, the world does it constantly; we can't help but change with it—we just need a strong enough force to budge us." The man peered down the shore, past Draco, and his face instantly softened. Draco thought he was lost in his memories until he heard that laughter was unmistakably floating on a stiff wind their way. Turning, his jaw almost dropped at the sight in the distance: an angel, bare of any clothing, was laughing with a woman donning a flowing, red gown as rich a ruby color as her tousled hair. In her brown arms was a raven-headed bundle that gurgled with giggles as the woman bounced him in her loving embrace. Looking at the man again, he saw the veiled pain in his smile as he watched the mother and infant from afar. _

"_Is she your past?"_

_The man chuckled, unable to look away. "Sadly, yes. She left after our first born was taken away. She thinks she wasn't strong enough to help me, but that's not it at all." Following his gaze, Draco focused on the angel, a creature of pure beauty. Its midnight black hair hung in a windswept fringe around a beaming face and fell down its back. Its small, lithe frame was dressed in fair skin, with snow white wings spanning proudly in the sun. Despite its fragile appearance, though, the angel radiated a fierce power, so raw and merciless that its sweet smile was lost in its cold green eyes. Draco frowned at those eyes, the wielders of brutal truths and unimaginable agony. However, those eyes still held a certain spark, though a tainted and bloodied one, that glinted almost madly when the angel looked above its head, into a thought bubble that only it and the woman could see. Draco tore his eyes away from the savage beauty of the angel, as it caused him to shiver just to think about what that level of power could do to him. "Ah, I see you've noticed your future, Draco."_

"_My future?" The angel laughed again, a forced note that pained him on so many levels. "The angel?"_

"_Ha, yes that boy is an awe-inspiring figure, but he's no angel," the man laughed, one that was strangely similar to the angel's. "He has his own condition, one of the rarest ones. He has what is called a 'motley soul'."_

"_A soul made of patches of other souls it has crossed paths with, changing past the point of recognition. I thought those souls died out millennia ago," Draco answered, astounded by his own answer. Years of mandatory study sessions with Severus had some hold on him after all. Due to this, he knew that this individual of his future was either impossibly old or on a whole other level of magical prominence. A "motley soul" doesn't take long to corrupt the afflicted person once acquired, with a ninety percent mortality rate in amongst recorded cases. The only reason it was so rare was because those susceptible to the condition were born with _another _disease that left spiritual channels wide open to illness. That in itself took mere months after birth, at most a year, before the soul wandered out the body, leaving an empty shell of a child behind. Both were nightmarish diseases, and for a wizard to survive not only one, but both and still function as a magical being was a miracle. "Who _is _he? I have to know!" _

"Yo, kid, we're here!"

_The man looked skywards, seeming a tad disappointed with having their time cut short. Sitting down by the edge of the water, he watched the undisturbed surface of the lake while digging his hands into the sand. "I'm afraid you must leave now, boy. Your future is waiting for you elsewhere."_

"_Wait! What's your name?"_

"_Please tell my wife and sons that I love them." _

Draco's eyes shot open just as a small, inhumanly strong hand slapped him straight across the face. Snapping his head back, he glared back at the odd pair staring at him with innocence drawn all over their faces.

"What the hell was that for?!"

The taller boy in front of him held his hands up defensively, pointing to the space next to him. Draco was confused until he looked down and noticed the unfazed, cherubic face of the small Asian girl standing in front of him. She inched her hand up again, as if she were about to ask a question, before slapping him even harder. Angry, he plucked her forehead and smirked when she yelped in surprise. Soon the two were in an all-out slap fight on the stoop of the dilapidated house, pinching and poking when they saw the opportunity. Osen watched, trying to keep from smiling, but burst into laughs when Draco resorted to tugging on one of Yuki's hanging pigtails. Outraged, she jumped on his shoulders and gnawing on his wings with her blunt, pearly teeth. Fortunately and unfortunately, the fight was cut short when the front door swung open and a strong grip tore them apart. Draco stood half in the doorway, flattening the wrinkles on his tunic when he realized he was wearing a plain, black T-shirt instead. Looking down, he saw that his robes were replaced with a black Muggle, button-up vest emblazoned with silver, Chinese dragons, snug skinny jeans and a pair of dark gray sneakers.

"Tell me where my clothes are," he demanded, feeling on edge without the folds of his robes hiding his shape.

The person who answered the door looked at him over her shoulder and he gasped in instant recognition: the long, red hair, the powerful, green eyes and the curvy figure all matched the woman on the shore. The dream of Here was still vivid in his mind when she turned fully to him, hands on her hips in the maternal way that noted displeasure. "Well, 'scuse _me, _Hun, but between the both of us, I'm pretty damn sure _you _is late and not me. You should be thankin' me that I ain't let Yuki leave ya sorry self on the train just to see where you'd end up. Now, get in the house 'fore I make an example outta you." One glare from those annoyed eyes and he needed no other encouragement; Draco turned on his heel and walked right into someone's arms.

"Oh, thank the gods you're alive," the person breathed. Draco knew Severus' voice, hugging him back tightly and following his godfather through the darkened home. He had no idea where he was, but having Severus guide him by his shoulder gave him some sense of security. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine."

"Do you remember what happened?" They turned a corner, and he could hear barely hear the footsteps of the three people behind them. As they passed a staircase, he caught a glimpse of the trophy heads of house elves on the wall. He tried to pretend he never saw it, while contemplating the professor's question.

"I remember seeing the Curse turn on me and a sharp pain under my heart, but that's all." They stopped in front of a door, and he could hear people behind it whispering to each other. He could've sworn he heard that werewolf, Lupin, talking to his cousin Nymphadora, but he figured he was hearing things. Wait, was that the Weasel and the Mudblood just now? He matched voices with heartbeats, some he knew and a few he didn't, and counted two extra heartbeats—there was only two people not talking. "Severus, what're you doing here with all those people?"

His godfather sighed. "I can't tell you that, Draco. Listen, you have to stay here for tonight and they will take you to the Hogwarts Express tomorrow morning. Your stuff has already been sent ahead to the school, but you need an examination."

"Then why can't you do it? I don't want to stay in this horrid place! Bring me home, right this instant!"

"I can't," he whispered. He led Draco through the door and all conversation in the brightly lit kitchen stopped. Sneering at the roomful of expressions ranging from disbelief—as of Molly Weasley's face—to dislike—courtesy of her youngest son, Ron—and he was already planning on leaving when the three strangers from before blocked the only exit. His godfather's hand on his shoulder tightened and he knew to sit down in the chair he'd been led up to. As soon as he was seated, Severus motioned forward a boy about his age from the back of the crowd. The boy appeared bored as he instructed Draco to remove his shirt, ignoring his outraged double take.

"Not in front of an audience, I'm not!"

"Just do it," mumbled Severus, scowling at the boy for being so uncooperative. "The sooner you finish this, the sooner we can all go to sleep." Huffing like a spoiled prince, he obliged. The bored boy slid a cold disk of metal over his skin that connected to the buds in his ears by a long, rubber tube.

"Breath, please," he instructed, voice plain. "Alright, lungs sound good. Cough, if you don't mind. Thank you. Now, I'm going to need you to look at your godfather." Draco raised his eyebrow but did as he was asked. Looking at Severus in the light, he was surprised to see him wearing a thick, woolen scarf. It was the end of summer, not to mention they were indoors—why did the relatively young man look so cold? His skin had even taken on a bluish tinge around his ears, as if he had been standing in snow for hours. When he was told he could turn around again, his brow was crinkled and he seemed much less arrogant. The doctor focused on a thin syringe of his blood, watching it turn from a dark red to a sickly green. He didn't know what the color change meant, but from the teenage doctor's calm nod, it wasn't a terminal disease of any sort. Or maybe it was; the doctor had quite the poker face.

"What's that supposed to mean?" The doctor dragged his gray-blue eyes to meet with Draco's silver ones, smiling half-heartedly.

"Were you feeling fatigued before the incident? Perhaps a little irritable?"

"No more than usual," he answered honestly. He knew he hadn't been hunting like he was supposed to, and the drinking on an empty stomach didn't help much. The doctor studied his skin, murmuring "Definitely pale" under his breath.

"Would you like the good news or the not-so-good news first, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Oh just spit it out!" _Might as well get this over with, _he urged himself.

"Well, the good news is your body has regenerated as expected: no crooked ribs or torn organs, and the wound hasn't scarred. The not-so-good news is that you've gone too long without a balanced diet and have a mild iron deficiency. You lost a lot of blood when you died, but lucky for you we caught this before it progressed into anemia."

"So he needs more iron," Severus said, glaring pointedly at his godson.

"That should do it. A blood-replenishing potion would do him so good, as well as plenty of rest. I'll inform Madam Pomfrey of this tonight and I advise monitoring his meals for his first few weeks of school." The doctor packed up his tools and walked up to the woman, who was leaning on the wall, hair spilling down behind her like a murder scene. "This is interesting. I'll take the job." Patting the blue-haired girl on the head as he passed, he left the kitchen.

Draco was already on his feet, waiting for Severus to lead him out of the room, refusing to answer any questions from the crowd. Remus was in the greasy-haired professor's face before they could walk three paces.

"What's the meaning of this, Professor Snape?! Bringing a Death Eater's son here is just asking for You-Know-Who to come crashing down o our heads!"

"Oh hush, Lupin. I am simply taking care of my godson, and nothing more. As much as it pains me to admit, this is Potter's house and he has given Mr. Malfoy's situation due consideration. He told me directly that he will allow him to sleep here if it's necessary."

Draco's eyes widened slightly but he remained quiet and let the adults argue with each other. The red-haired woman jerked her head towards the door, telling him to go on ahead to sleep. He quirked a suspicious eyebrow and slipped through the crowd, into the living room. _Potter owns this forsaken, old house and is _allowing_ me to stay? Who asked me whether I wanted to stay or not? No one! I should throw his invitation in his face and go _home _already...At least, I would do it if I knew where I was. How did I sleep through the whole trip and a change of clothes?! _

"Don't try leaving before eating something, Malfoy." He jumped, spinning around to meet a familiar yet completely new face. _Not possible! _"Aiden said I have iron deficiency anemia, so I was put in charge in making sure we eat at the same time. I'm usually on time with meals, so try not to skip them." Harry Potter then walked past him and through the doorway without a glance backward. "We have to share a room, so follow me and don't get lost. This house can kill you." Draco had no choice but to listen.


	6. The Devil and the Angel

**Okay! We have spiritual illness and physical illness; all we're missing is some mental illness and we have the whole set: soul, body and mind! YAY! And as for reviews: make them, please! I tend to make stuff up as I go along, so a bit of guidance would work wonders. ALRIGHT! STORY TIME! **

**Rating**: M, for language, graphic violence, chronic evilness, HP/DM goodness

**Warning**: SLASH Draco x Harry, Evil/Dark Harry, Weasley/Granger/Dumbles bashing, OC

**Declaimer**: No, I don't own Harry Potter or its plot/characters/awesomeness. Glad that was solved.

**CHAPTER SIX: The Devil and the Angel**

Dust rose in clouds as they ascended the wheezing staircase, the crows cawing obnoxiously through the cracks in the walls. Draco averted his eyes as they passed the mounted heads, deciding family, though rich enough to have house elves, must've had a barbaric mindset as to how to honor them. How could Gryffindor's Golden Boy, Harry bloody Potter, come into inheriting the property of such people? The dozens of books written on him gushed about him living in a cushy house in Muggle suburbia with extended family. When did that become a cobweb ridden hell hole? A thousand and one more questions raced through his mind as said Golden Boy showed him a line of doors on the third floor. He opened the one directly in front of them, waving a vague hand to the bed by a Muggle device he understood was a stereo. Next to it were stacks of CDs with dark, violent cover art that he could spot from the doorway.

"That's your bed for the night. Listen to the stereo if you want; I don't care," Potter explained in a monotone. He lifted his hand to scratch his neck, and Draco noticed the spiked wristband he was wearing. Looking over the shorter boy's whole attire, he was shocked by the copious amounts of black and dark green it consisted of. Potter had even grew his hair out to swing around his waist in a loose plait, and when he turned his head, Draco swore he saw a pair of snake bite piercings on his face. The stunned Slytherin opened his mouth to speak when Potter turned to him and he received a full view of the odd new Boy-Who-Lived. His wild bangs were longer, streaked with venomous green and bleach blonde, falling over one eyebrow that he had an idea was pierced. A black fleck that was never there before marked his left cheek, and if he looked close enough, he could see it was a tiny skull and cross bones. All of the harsh clothing, however, failed to downplay the innocent appearance offered by Potter's large, perfectly green eyes and pouty, pink lips. The vision of the ruthless angel from Here was suddenly at its clearest, to the point where he could almost hear the strange young man talking in his ear.

"P-potter, you're...," He stuttered out before his voice cracked. Clearing his throat again, he realized the cotton mouth had returned with a vengeance. Potter lifted his pierced eyebrow, but Draco retired into his own thoughts. He couldn't deny that Harry Potter and the angel were frighteningly similar, especially with his Scarhead's surprise transformation, but he had taken the vision quite literally. He saw an androgynous angel with the whitest of wings, one of them bandaged, and the most peculiar gaze he'd ever encountered. As drastic as Potter's way of dress and deadpan air were, they held no ground before the thinly-veiled glory he expected. _They can't be the same person. _"Interesting look, Potter. I see Dumbledore loosened his grip on your leash."

Potter yawned, unimpressed by his insult, and walked away without a word, knowing Draco would follow. Sneering at his back, Draco walked into the shadowy bedroom, noting how the walls lacked any posters or framed photos. Standing over his bed, his lip curled at the blanket of dust over the worn silk comforter. Half-looking over his shoulder and ready to make a scene, he realized a few sentences into his rant that Potter didn't give a flying fart in space what he thought. The owner of the house sat himself in the window sill, a pair of huge headphones over his ears and a CD player in his lap. The sun was just inching into the overcast sky, and he could hear the mangled hybrid of heavy instrumentals and unabashed swearing Potter was listening to from the other end of the room. The higher the sun rose, the louder the assumed music sounded until all he had to cover his ears with his hands. He tried glaring at the other boy in hopes he'd lower the volume, but his attempts fell flat on the floor. Potter continued to ignore his obvious aggravation, gazing unblinkingly out the window, mouthing the chorus and nodding his head to the beat.

"Potter," he called to no avail. Either the Gryffindor couldn't hear him or he was doing his damndest to ignore all other noise. "Potter! Turn it down!" The other boy graced him with a languid middle finger and went on ignoring him. With a growl, Draco stomped across the room, seeing Potter's shoulders tense and answered his sidelong glare by snatching the device out of his lap. Popping the player open, he took the CD out and carried it to his side of the room. He heard the light padding of Potter's feet on the creaky wood floor and caught the CD case as it hurtled towards his head.

"Give it back," Potter spat.

"No," he replied slowly, as if he were talking to an angry child. "I tried to be civil about it but—" Another object flew past his ear and plowed into the opposite wall. By the crash, he knew it would've caused serious physical damage if it hit its mark.

"I won't miss next time, Malfoy," his enemy warned. A vestige of the Harry he knew glinted in those furious eyes, refusing to be suppressed any longer. Knowing it was there lifted a weight off of his chest that he didn't even realize was there, and Draco almost sighed in relief. Potter stood at his immediate left all of a sudden, wielding a very solid-looking book when he was distracted by someone pounding on the wall. Taking the opening, he swiped the book and held it in front of him like it was a shield. "Malfoy! Just hand over my CD!"

"Not a chance, Potty! You're not as special as you think you are," he retorted, slipping the contraband CD into his back pocket. Smirking in momentary victory, he retreated to his bed, his back to Potter. Suddenly, he couldn't face him—the urge to grin like a fool had overtaken him at the look of outrage on the shorter boy's face. He always enjoyed annoying the mighty Harry Potter until the boy showed his true colors. Though he'd happily be tortured rather than admit it, Draco felt as though he knew Potter best, better than the other idiot Gryffindors for sure. Whenever he riled the other boy up, he could see the gears turning in his head, planning the most savory revenge. Potter had a sharp mind that Draco couldn't help but respect, and it didn't take a genius to see that his "friends" bogged him down.

"If you don't return my things, I'll have you share a room with Yuki," Potter said.

"Who in Merlin's name is 'Yuki'," he sneered.

Potter chuckled once, a foreboding sound. "Small, blue hair, likes causing pain to others. Ring any bells?" A shiver shook Draco's spine.

"You wouldn't dare," he challenged.

Potter smiled, having struck a nerve. "I heard she sleeps with her eyes open. Imagine those big, red eyes watching you sleep _all night long. _I'm not even going to think about her taste in dolls, either."

"She can't be that bad. You're just trying to rattle me, Potter."

"Fine; don't listen to me," the other boy shrugged, pretending to lose interest in the CD all together. "But I'd sleep with all my limbs on the mattress if I were you. Some of those dolls like to hide under bed and wait to take them."

Draco knew when to choose his battles: he fished the CD out of his pocket, put it back in the case, and left it on his bedside table. He'd meet Potter half-way, but he refused to bring the CD _to _him like a servant boy. With a sigh, the raven-headed boy moved over to his side, brushing past him to save his beloved CD from the clutches of the Slytherin. "What's so special about it, anyway? It's just a CD."

"I don't have to explain myself to you," he mumbled. Draco didn't hear him, entranced by his long, inky plait—it curled at the very end, as if it was curious. That one curl amused him reminding him of the bird's nest of hair that Potter saw fit to tame. Soon, the nature of the plait, a barely contained mane, was one of the only remnants of the pre-pierced Potter. He reached forward when Potter straightened up, causing the Gryffindor to jump when he pulled out his hair tie. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I think I'm bored with this hairstyle," he answered curtly.

"You've no control over how I wear my hair!" Draco laughed once, continuing to unravel the braid, yanking it when Potter attempted to turn his head. "Malfoy, this isn't a joke! Let me go!"

"Relax, Potter, I'm not going to hurt you," he muttered, followed by a sharp tug. "Now hold still before you pull your hair out."

"Let me _go_!"

"Alright!" He shoved Potter in between his shoulder blades, sick of his griping. Then, with the sound of the crack of a bullwhip, Harry Potter was lost in a flurry of white feathers. Somewhere in the middle of the blizzard, he heard Potter utter a most colorful string of swears. A blast of wind sapped the warmth from his bones, tossing chairs around the room. The window by Potter's bed blew out, leaving the odors of Muggle London to be whipped around. Glass rained down on them and Draco screamed when Potter lunged at him. The boy slammed into him with much more force than he would've ever expected from his undersized frame, and pinned him the ground with his knees. He resisted the vice-like grip, though each bout of struggling shook the bones in his wrist. His heart was hammering at the cold rage on Potter's face—the Gryffindor's sudden aggression was unheard of. The Golden Boy hardly ever took his teasing to heart, at most throwing a few wild punches, then calmed himself down. Black spots exploded in the corners of his vision before Draco realized Potter had wrapped his hands around her throat and was cutting off his air. Clawing at his attacker's hands, he tried to scream again but couldn't gather a large enough breath.

"Talk, imposter," he ordered.

"I have no clue what you're going on about, Potter," he snapped.

"What are you?" Potter hissed. Draco shook his head frantically, beating on the smaller boy's shoulders. The stranger at Here was right—he himself was right—to believe Harry Potter was the creature he was warned about. Potter's white wings were pure deception, feigning the ultimate innocence—the angrier the boy became, the more Draco felt as if he hadcommitted an awful wrong worth punishing. Draco's struggles weakened, until he stopped altogether to maintain an unmoved air, knowing he couldn't win if Potter wanted him dead. Potter tightened his grip, wrestling a choked gasp out of him. "Humans don't have enough power to release a daemon's wings. Hell, even other _daemons _can't manage that feat. I won't ask again: what _are _you?"

Seeing as Potter's method of interrogation was a tad bit counterproductive since he was too busy choking to effectively answer a question, he settled with arching his back off the ground releasing his own pair wings. Potter loosened his hands for a moment in confusion, and then continued to steal the air from him with determination. "What the hell kind of daemon has those? Bat?"

Draco shook his head grudgingly, aware of his lungs burning for oxygen, unable to renew his fighting. He was tired of fighting, tired of trying his hardest to save a life everyone would be better off without. Merlin knows Potter had always had it out for him, and the whole of the Wizarding World with him. He couldn't even return home because his own _father _was waiting to hand him over to the Dark Lord on a silver platter. "Then what _are _you?!" Draco kept his lips sealed, feeling his face turn an asphyxiated scarlet while he lay there, watching himself give up in Potter's perplexed eyes. "Answer me, Malfoy! I don't want to kill you unnecessarily."

Draco locked gazes with him, as if to say, 'Just do it,' though he could see the hesitation in the other boy's face, feel it in his loosening grip. A mild desperation ate at the fading edge of his mind, and the hands that once scrambled to remove his hands were calmly holding them in place. All the merciless energy between them drained into a steel tension, with Potter looking at him in growing confusion, disbelief, and helplessness. Draco Malfoy was supposed to be oh-so arrogant, thinking himself a gift to all mankind and always taking on a holier-than-thou tone. This young man had his face, but had thrown his life into the fleeting wind without remorse. "You want to die." It wasn't a question. Potter seemed terrified by the revelation; he tore his hands away, shaking his head in a vain attempt to clear it. "That's not supposed to happen! No! You can't just _change _like that!" Blood rushed in Draco's ears as his body gasped for air, his mind having long gone blank. "WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?!"

The door burst open, the entire Order flooding the room in a charge of loud shouts and pounding feet. Lupin yanked his best friends' son off of the platinum blonde, Severus attending to his own still godson. The pasty professor checked him for any injuries, snarling in his throat at the finger-shaped bruises on his neck. The red-haired woman strode through the crowded doorway, her two followers brushing aside a sobbing Weasley as they passed. No one seemed to notice their presence besides Draco, as the others were busy even hollering at Potter or each other. The other boy hollered back shamelessly, shaking off any consolation with an unsettled tremor to his hands.

The tapping of impatient boots drew his attention back to an annoyed, emerald glare. "What the fuck, man? You wanna mess with his head, try flirtin'. Getting' yaself killed only works to piss _me _off, and you don't want that, kid." The red-haired woman called forward the tall boy from before, despite his clear attempt to hide himself in Yuki's shadow. Draco eyed the scar running over his left eye, the other one a rich gold color. The gold matched the multiple hoops looped through both of his ears that glowed dully in the bleary sunlight. Disregarding the rebellious exterior, he figured they were about the same age and of similar intelligence, feeling an instant connection. "Osen, y'know I love ya, right?"

"Yeah, sis. I do."

"And y'know I'd never hurt ya. Daddy's ghost would never leave me be if I did."

"Yeah, I know."

"Then why's _this _fool tryin' to toss away his life after I was so nice as to give it back? I thought you were _watchin' _him. Ya best give me the greatest goddamn reason I've ever heard before I start to hurt _somebody_."

"Wait, you're the reason I'm still alive?" Draco didn't know whether to thank her or throw a fit—he'd always believed that dying was the final deed that was impervious to change. The _one _thing that he had confidence in was snatched from under him like a broken dream, leaving him shattered and _alive. _"That's impossible! No one can reverse death!"

"Well, that makes me special, now, don't it? Dyin' has two parts: the body failin' and the soul leavin'. Ya godfather over there added half the rest of his life to ya body and Yuki stitched ya soul back in. Bam: death solved." The red-haired woman inhaled deeply, exhaling a huge sigh, and offered her gloved hand. "They call me Diosa. Nice to meet ya."

He accepted her hand hesitantly. "I'm—"

"Draco Malfoy, I know. We all know. It took a small army to find out who the last dragon daemon was," she laughed, less irritated with him. "I'm guessin' ya don't need any special trainin' with ya powers or anythin', seein' as ya ain't expose yaself yet. We had to induce that idiot's inheritance, ejectin' years of glamour and shit before he was back to normal." Draco glanced at the raven-haired daemon on the other side of the room.

"So Potter really is a daemon...for a second I figured my eyes were playing tricks on me."

"Nah, he's snowy-owl down to the DNA."

Draco raised an eyebrow. "I thought they were hunted to extinction."

Diosa smirked, fixing his disarrayed clothing and brushing through his mussed hair. "I thought the same about dragons. Funny how that works out, huh?" She patted his shoulder, seeming to cast away the rest of the chip on her shoulder. "Hey, d'ya mind helpin' me out with somethin', kid?"

"Depends on what you're asking for," he replied.

"_Help us kill Dumbledore_," Yuki shouted from next to his leg, grinning cheekily. He jumped, glancing at Dumbledore's lackeys in fear that they heard her declaration. However, they were deaf to their conversation, focusing on the broken glass on the floor. _Okay, that's nothing if not suspicious. _

"They can't hear us talking, can they?"

Diosa shrugged, uninterested. "They can hear you and me, but they think I was sent by Dumbledore, so they don't suspect a thing. Only my Agents can see these two outta their bodies."

"I don't understand. What spell did you use?"

"No spells. It's pretty easy: Yuki and Osen are already dead; these two are souls. They looked nothin' like this when they were alive." This led Draco to inch away from Yuki, finding her unveiled amusement at his expense duly disturbing. Long, curving lashes bordered her wide, ruby eyes, black frills and ruffles as tangible as the floor beneath his feet.

"So...I've been talking to...ghosts?"

"A lil' more complex than that, but ya got the general idea. Now, are ya gonna help me or what?"

"What do I receive in the neighborhood of payment?" He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named expected him to carry out his mission in the field, where the world would soon hunger for his head on a pike for his Death Eater status. The Slytherin worked better from behind the scenes, handing off the dirty work to the professionals. He had no qualms about helping kill the old man, as long as he didn't have to cast the final curse; further payment was all the more incentive to divide loyalties.

Diosa brushed some dirt off of his shoulder, touching the back of his neck almost affectionately. "You're a clever kid, handsome, if a lil' cocky. If ya willin' to work with him," she pointed at Potter, who had taken to ignoring Lupin altogether, "I'll make _that_," she gestured to his left arm, in the area of his Dark Mark, "disappear. Ya'd be off the radar, free of service to anyone but me. Limited time offer."

He didn't need to think twice—freedom from the Dark Lord's authority, without time in Azkaban. Sure, he had to partner up with Potter, but now he knew Golden Boy was only gilded, covering layers of a darker being. He didn't have to worry about the Boy-Who-Lived trying to change him, for better or worse, as he was needed just how he was. It was the perfect job, the perfect partner, with perfect timing. "I'll do it." From the corner of his eye, he could've sworn he saw Potter smile.


	7. Playing Games

**PLEASE READ: School is starting up and the story will slow down again for a while. I'll try my hardest to update quickly, but I can't make any promises. So, I decided t slip in some light HP/DM as an apology! Gomen Nasai! Well, READ ON! **

**Rating**: M, for language, graphic violence, chronic evilness, HP/DM goodness

**Warning**: SLASH Draco x Harry, Evil/Dark Harry, Weasley/Granger/Dumbles bashing, OC

**Declaimer**: We've been over this before—I do not, nor have or will I ever, own Harry Potter or its characters. Got it? Good.

**CHAPTER SEVEN: Playing Games **

**10:25am—Number Twelve Grimmauld Place; London, England (Harry's POV) **

It seemed that the entire universe was out to ruin his last two days of summer vacation. First, Marlonne showed up, playing him for a helpless child like only he could. Next, the goddess hailing from the States strolls into his house, barking orders and generally exploiting his debt for all it was worth. The Weasleys found the nerve to return, having called the Order because they were "concerned for his well-being", then disregarding him to interrogate Marlonne on the old man's request. His only break was when said smiling daemon left for an "appointment" and he was allowed a time to relax...until he fell asleep. His whole day went downhill from the moment he found out Diosa could invade his _dreams _because of that place called Here. He figured nothing could beat that bombshell until she told him he was dying.

_Alright, not dying, _he corrected himself, ignoring Remus' ridiculous claim that he wasn't listening. _My soul's just _broken_, that's all. _Then, even after he was diagnosed with an untreatable, incurable condition, he had to live and work with Draco Malfoy to kill a man _no one could find_. And, on top of all these treats, he was anemic because his relatives didn't see the need to feed him.

"Worst. Weekend. Ever," he mumbled. The high point of the whole ordeal was that his partner, though as frustrating as a splinter under his fingernail, was the finest person for the job of all-around sneak. Both of them were young, barely adults, and wouldn't be suspected of much devilry on their own. Plus, not only was Malfoy a Slytherin, born for shadow work, but his mentor was the Order's own double-spy. Paired with Harry's own cover as a hero and the sympathy from his uncle's death, their mission was bound to go unhindered.

He wiped the grin off of his face when Malfoy met his sidelong stare, and fought down a blush. When his new partner turned back to Diosa, he went back to stealing glances at him, eyebrow wrinkling on its own pureblood stood with his back straight, his shoulders set, his chin firm and his arrogance aglow. He was the opposite of the lost cause he saw before—the teenager that hated existing so much that Harry briefly believed he was a spy for Dumbledore. Thinking about the hopeless look in those eyes made him take a deep breath, glad to be alive.

_He's like a different person as a human than as a daemon, _he thought. _I've never seen someone look so desperate before. _

"Harry, you're not listening again!" He grimaced, withholding the comment that burned at the tip of his tongue. The werewolf was a normally quiet man, keeping to himself most of the time, and strong as steel the rest of it. Remus didn't deserve his anger, since he did nothing to wrong him. Harry turned to him, sighing and keeping his head down, the symbol of submission.

"You're right, Remus," he whispered. "I'm sorry. There's just...so much going on...I c-can't..." He bit his lip, avoiding eye contact with the older man and covered his face as if he were going to cry. He made sure to hunch his shoulders, so he'd look even smaller, and appealed to Remus' alpha wolf instincts. Harry felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and didn't shake it off, genuinely wishing he was comforted by Remus' understanding. He couldn't deny that he wasn't the same Harry anymore, but Sirius' murder had changed him, most would say for the worst. Guilt should've eaten at him for manipulating the man's fatherly love, but a growing part of him lost that old compassion.

"It's alright, Harry," the ex-professor smiled. "I'm not angry with you. I think we're all stretched a little thin. Maybe we should all rest."

"He can't," stated the goddess of eternal bossiness. "We're goin' out."

"Excuse me," Molly Weasley retorted, maternal instinct kicking in. "I'm sorry, but these children need sleep. They have school tomorrow, Miss..."

"Call me Dee, and I don't see why I can't take two, growing boys out for a lil' walk. It ain't even noon yet, and they won't get drowsy 'till two or three." Harry wanted to mention that he was tired already, but he figured there had to be a reason for this surprise trip. The last time he left the house with her, he returned looking like an angry emotive kid with a bag full of anti-everything music. Not that he was against it—it was actually his idea—but he was sure they'd be out all day, despite the exalted woman's reassurances.

"Well, Miss Dee, I'd have to advice against this outing. Besides, you've seemed to have chosen the two boys that happen to be the easiest fatigued."

"Okay, and I respect ya advice as a habitual mother," Diosa smiled bright enough to blind a rock. "Harry, Sickle, find ya coats and let's get to gettin'." Harry tried to play his laugh off as a cough at the shocked befuddlement on the blonde's face when he heard the nickname. He had to admit: the name fit in two ways. On one hand, Malfoy's looks and tone were surely sharp as a scythe; on the other hand, his eyes, in the right light, flashed silver like the coin. _Ugh, did I just_ _think that? I'm already dropping my guard, and we haven't shared three civil words with each other! _

Blowing his bangs out of his face and sidestepping Hermoine, he plucked his denim jacket off the foot of his bed and navigated threw the shattered glass to Diosa's side. The woman wrapped an instinctual arm around his shoulder and urged him through the door, Malfoy at their heels. The trio bolted out the house, waving Kreacher out of the way and nodding a quick farewell to the laughing pair of Messengers on the stoop. As they slammed the door, Diosa climbed behind the wheel of a shining, cherry red Ferrari California that lit up the entire street.

"C'mon, get in the back seat before that busybody Molly comes and eats us," she called half-believing it would happen. He smirked and grabbed the hesitant Slytherin's hand, dragging him to the curb. Harry reveled in the softness of the leather interior, waving his free hand above his head to enjoy the freedom of the drop top. The car purred to life, sending a thrill up his spine that made him sink into his seat, brimming with excitement. He hardly rode in a car at all, much less one that made pedestrians gape as they sailed over the asphalt.

_I wonder what it's like driving this beauty on the open road_, he pondered, momentarily lost in teenage fantasies of wind rushing through his hair and the smell of the ocean in his lungs. _I have to buy one of these! _

"Hey, ya listenin' back there, kid?"

"Huh?"

"I said, where d'ya wanna go? I just needed outta that house, with all them creaky floors and shit." He made eye contact with her in the rearview mirror. "What, ya wanna watch a movie or somethin'?"

"I thought there was a more pressing matter to attend to than goofing around," Malfoy murmured to no one in particular. Harry felt him try to slip his hand out of his and dropped it like a lead ball, jamming his own offending hand into his pocket. He could feel Malfoy's stare on his reddening face, curious and...was that disappointment? _Impossible. _

"Lighten up, Sickle," the goddess laughed. "It's the last day of summer! Don't cha wanna live it up?"

The boy let loose a bitter chuckle, discreetly flexing the hand that lay between him and Harry. "No, I can't say that I do, though you certainly seem raring to go. I'm guessing you have an adventure in mind."

"Ah, nothin' more than a few errands. A lil' runnin' around here and there, y'know."

"That sounds more like the schedule of a housewife than that of the goddess of Death. How can I be sure you're not a poser who _says _she's some powerful being?"

Diosa laughed again, reaching into the glove compartment. "Damn, no smokes," she mumbled to herself. They stopped at a red light, Diosa kneeling in her seat to look over the head rest like a child. "Hey, ya wanna hear a secret?"

Harry, who was sitting behind the driver's seat, poked her forehead experimentally. "Hmm, you don't feel holy, Missy. I'm feeling a little betrayed!" She snapped at his finger, plucking his forehead, then slid back into her seat just as the light changed.

"I'm tryin' to explain myself, but _someone _wants to interrupt people!"

"What's this so-called 'secret'," Malfoy sneered. "It can't be very well-kept if you're willing to offer it up so easily."

"Yeah, ya right. I tell pretty much any agent willin' to listen, so they get all the facts straight. The truth is I ain't much of a goddess: I was just the first daemon born with green eyes after my old man. I can't control the passin' of souls all by my lonesome, so Death is more of an organization and I'm the head bitch in charge." Harry scowled in confusion.

"I don't understand. What does green eyes have to do with that?"

"Gracious, Potter, don't you know _anything _about daemons?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, was I talking to you, Malfoy? But since you're so ready to spread your almighty knowledge, I might as well hear what you have to say."

"Well, if you _must _know, the color of a daemon's eyes is representative of their level of magical power. Only daemons of a certain power have the same eye color, despite relation or species. Green eyes means the person has an indefinite amount of raw power from birth."

"Well shit, Sickle—ya got quite the brain, don't cha? Glad I picked ya for the job!" Harry was thinking along those same lines, but refused to stroke the Slytherin Prince's ego. However, he still had questions that needed answering, so he decided to swallow his pride.

"So let's say a person has...oh, I don't know..._silver _eyes: would that mean they're _weaker_ than a person with green ones? Hmm, Malfoy?" Okay, maybe not _all _of his pride would go down without a fight. Malfoy gritted his teeth, and he could almost see the vein throbbing in his temple.

"It doesn't work _quite _that way, _Potter_," he hissed. "Silver eyes note a different _type _of power, though it could be same amount of, if not _more_, magic. That person has more refined magic—"

"Lemme guess: only pureblood daemons have silver eyes." Malfoy didn't answer, choosing to glare at him in fuming silence. "Am I right, oh Wise One?"

The slamming of a door interrupted their glaring match, and he noticed Diosa walking around the car to Malfoy's window. She whispered something in his ear that made the blonde sputter wildly, her striding off into the professional looking building they were parked in front of. Harry snorted at his partner masking his emotions, figuring it was a waste of time to be passive aggressive when the woman was involved. She, similar to Marlonne, took it upon themselves to do whatever they wanted, though she held the reigns and couldn't be reprimanded. If someone was indebted to her, she'd insure that the debt be paid. Since he had taken a life before his time, he dedicated his life to serving her with no protests. However, that brought to light the question of what Malfoy had done to owe a debt to Death.

"Hey, Malfoy...," he trailed off. The other boy was bent over in his seat, his head resting on his lap and shoulders shaking. His sudden depression struck Harry dumb, his question dying on his tongue. The thought that Diosa said something overly upsetting left a sour taste in his mouth, and he tried ignoring his partner's sobs as a courtesy to his pride.

Although Malfoy tried to stifle his cries, Harry couldn't take the muffled hiccups after mucheffort. After messing with the car radio, Harry figured he could jumpstart the car to listen to _anything_ but the crying that rattled him in a way he didn't expect in his worst nightmares. He reached into his back pocket for his wand, pausing when he saw that quiet desperation on the boy's face again. He could almost see his partner ending himself right there and then, radiating an emptiness Harry hadn't felt in for half a year..._since the moment Sirius died. _

"Stop that," he rasped. Malfoy didn't respond, silently begging him to do something he couldn't. "Stop it! Stop wanting to die, god dammit!"

"I-I..."

"Why now, huh?! You've never wanted to die before!" The comment paralyzed his partner, dammed his tears, and left him staring at his shoes through his fingers. "Why all of a sudden?!"

"You know nothing about me, Potter," came the frosty reply. "Don't act like you do."

"I'll never get a chance to know you if you off yourself, genius," he growled. Malfoy returned his contempt tenfold.

"Oh, fuck off, Golden Boy! You have no _idea _what I'm going through! The whole of the dark world expect me to be some great Death Eater now that I'm seventeen!"

"And I have to save the whole world from darkness. So? "

"If I can't live up to their expectations, You-Know-Who will _kill _my family!"

"Ha, you're preaching to the choir, Malfoy! He murdered mine when I was _one_. The last memory I have of my mother is her dying for me. You'll get over it and move on."

Malfoy gaped at him, appalled. "Who _are _you?!"

"You know, I've been asking myself the same thing." He had only wanted to end the crying, but seeing Malfoy stare at him as if he was a monster disturbed him all the same. No matter what, he felt as if he was doing something wrong.

_Okay, telling a depressed person to let their family die and get over it is strictly a Slytherin move, _he chastised himself. _But what's done is done. _Neither of them talked for a while, though they both prayed Diosa would return already. Malfoy sat as far from Harry as the back seat allowed,

"Look," he sighed. "I went a bit overboard."

"No, you don't say," the blonde drawled, though he still stayed out of arm's reach. "I hadn't noticed."

"I'm trying to apologize here, Malfoy!"

"Well, you're not doing a very good job of it! Just...forget it, Potter. This conversation never happened."

"But—"

"_Never happened!"_

"I get it! Damn!" They refused to look at each other after Diosa walked out of the building, waving them out of the car. Malfoy was the first one out of the car, not sparing a single glance his way. Harry growled, thoroughly annoyed. Their superior made a comment about him scowling, but it barely registered in his mind as he was intent on burning a hole through the back of the moody Slytherin's head.

While he was busy sending evil thoughts, they had been led though several floors of the building to a quiet waiting room. From the corner of his eye, he saw the lavender wallpaper and vases of white lilies adorning the room. Soft, near subliminal music played from hidden speakers, It was difficult for him to imagine any of the Messengers sitting in the overstuffed chairs, twiddling their thumbs.

"Why are we here?" Harry's scowls deepened at hearing the object of his loathing speak, fleetingly considering kicking him in the head. "I thought you had errands to run."

"Did I say that?" Diosa batted her fan of lashes, smiling innocently.

"Yes. You did."

"Oh, yeah! Well, I say a lot of things," she giggled. The curtain in the back of the room fluttered and an odd young woman came out, grinning like a cat. Diosa hugged her, since they appeared to be old friends, and Harry felt the other woman looked like a college version of her. The woman's hair was the same deep red, though she was a head shorter and spoke without the American accent. He could hardly see the skin of her arms past the festival of tattoos depicting different scenes: wolves dancing on her shoulders, tailed children laughing on lush grass, and golden-eyed men watching green-eyed women cradle their infants lovingly. The younger woman even rolled the sleeves of her dress shirt up for the best view of the art work.

"Boys, this's my cousin, Michael," Diosa beamed. "She's a tat artist, the best in London!"

"You should know, sending your people here every two weeks," Michael reprimanded jokingly. "These two are kids, anyway. Unless we have some consent, this is never going to work."

"Nah, it's cool! Sickle over there is seventeen already, and don't cha recognize this one?" Diosa's cousin scrutinized him from his bright bangs to his sneakered feet, face blank of anything other than curiosity.

"No, who is he?"

"Ya still ain't got it?!"

"HE'S HARRY BLOODY POTTER! Sweet Merlin, just tell us why we're here!" The goddess and her cousin glared at Malfoy in unison, pupils narrowing while Harry smirked behind his hand.

_At least I'm not the only one in a shitty mood_, he snickered internally. Diosa told her cousin to explain, who waved them behind the curtain into the main room. The lighting was a bit dimmer, and there were no windows. Posters of different rock bands and R&B singers hung on the walls, in the heat of fervent live performances and seducing the microphone with words they couldn't hear. He watched as one group in dramatic school uniforms screamed into the mike, pounding on their instruments and cursing out the crowd as they did through his headset. Their name emblazoned the top of the poster: _Mindless Self Indulgence. _

"I should've known you'd be into that fiendish death howl," a voice sneered in passing.

"Stuff it, Malfoy," he spat at his back.

"Chill ya'll," Diosa warned, no longer joking. "It's time to be serious. Michael, d'ya mind startin' on it today? Sickle's the only one gettin' it, anyway."

"Then why am I here?!"

"Support," she ordered. "He's ya partner, now, and ya gotta get used to bein' around him. Plus, I want cha to watch, 'cause ya gettin' the same thing when ya hit seventeen."

"What exactly am I having done here?"

Diosa kneaded the bridge of her nose, fist on her hip. "Listen, 'cause I'm not gonna repeat myself: to free ya of Voldemort, the Dark Mark has to be drained of magic. _Then _Michael's gonna hide the Mark in plain sight so ya won't be arrested if it's seen."

"By hiding you mean—"

"Tattooing around it, yes," finished Michael. She revealed her own left wrist, and nestled in a graveyard of skulls was the one and only Dark Mark. "I haven't served the You-Know-Who since he went after you, Harry Potter. It's easier than just covering it with glamour, since you won't have to concentrate on that one patch of skin constantly."

"Does he have to have that many tattoos?"

"No, but the more, the better. Ya can choose the design and everythin', Sickle, but I advise sleevin' the whole arm, at least. I don't wanna have to save ya from Azkaban in the middle of the mission." Malfoy was silent for a few seconds, staring at the wall of samples in front of the artist's chair.

"I have one condition," he said, condescendingly. He looked at Harry, telling him his demands without speaking a single word.

"You can't be serious," he grumbled, face flushed with embarrassment. Malfoy smirked subtly, waiting for his answer.

"Whatever it is, do it," Diosa demanded. "We don't have time for games." Sighing, Harry slouched forward, hiding his pink cheeks under his long hair. Like ripping off a bandage, he thrust his hand into his partner's expectant palm and looked at the far wall, gripping Malfoy's hand in his.

_He lives to make a fool out of me, _he screamed in his head. _What is he, a five year old?! _

"Okay," Malfoy announced nonchalantly. "I'm ready."


	8. Last Will and Testament

Diosa's LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT:

I, Underland, being of sound mind and body, speak for the original character Diosa, and declare this to be her Last Will and Testament. I hereby revoke all previous wills and codicils. Let is so be known that any plans to continue "The Scarred Hand of Death" in any manner, serious or otherwise, are void.

The ending goes as follows:

"Draco left, hand in hand with the Boy-Who-Killed, one arm sleeved in white gauze. He turned to the boy to his right and said something in a sexy baritone. His companion blushed, his snake bit piercings casting off the mid-afternoon sun.

The pair approached the convertible idling in front of the building and clamber into the backseat. Diosa's ample breasts jiggled something sarcastic yet ultimately maternal, and the three of them expressed varying degrees of amusement. I-I mean, _Diosa_-revved the engine, and was about to pull off the curb when the great Elder God, Deus ex Machina descends from the gaping plot hole in the middle of the street.

Suddenly flames.

And earthquakes.

The apocalypse came down on them like the black rain of a teenager's repressed emotions. Harry hadn't even the moment to gaze deeply into Draco's frightened, silver orbs before the end came for them all. Lightening of Doom strikes their car, and ignoring established laws of conductivity, ignited the gas tank. All of London bursts into flames, and every living creature dies in the blaze."

FIN

Minus the nonexistent plot, the ridiculous characterization, and the almost criminal use of one cliched OCs, I'm actually proud enough of this to leave it up.

"Scarred Hand" was surely the development of an honest-to-god headache. Never had I thought myself capable of constructing a foundation of pure angst such as this. I mean, seriously , can we list the shit this story has thrown at you?

Rape

Murder incarnate

Accidental suicide

Cursing (because this is serious business, god dammit)

Dark clothes

Sadism

Betrayal

Rebellious music

Dark teen makeover

LOSS OF PENIS! (It just atrophies off. How's that in any way conducive to sex?)

I'm quite sure I've forgotten variables in this clusterfuck of a story, and really, I'm okay with that. If ya'll care to add to the list, do so in the reviews. Or think disdainful thoughts. The Angst will know.

Though, there are elements of this story I can't really complain about. The writing wasn't the worst I've ever done (though far from the best). Marlonne is my personal favorite, as is the shore of Here. I'm also quite proud of my magical ailments, and killer Harry has always been a favorite trope of mine. Yes, the sequence of events is cringe-worthy if anything (because I wrote this with my ass) , but it was a good release of any bottled rage or resentment for mankind. As well as penis envy.

However, in all honesty, Harry doesn't even deserve his [enter euphemism for phallus]; he doesn't even use it.

If anything, I should have made it bigger. I'd have dedicated an entire chapter to his spiffy new member had the thought occurred. But I digress.

This story is being put to sleep. Almost regrettably, it ended before anything happened. Harry never got to return to Hogwarts and astound Wizarding Britain with his shiny wings and homicidal disposition. Draco will never share his tales of woe and resurrection with his dwindling circle of friends, eventually using Harry as his sole reason to continue living.

Most importantly, Harry and Draco will never bone. A moment of silence, please...Thank you.

I would continue the story as a parody-book porn hybrid, but really, why bother? I have enough of that on my Favorites List as is.

For those who subscribed to this story (you know who you are), please feel free to unsubscribe. Drop a review by way of eulogy if you so desire. Otherwise, FF, let's burn this bitch like Vernon Dursley and move on with our lives.

So, there it is. R.I.P. Scarred Hand of Death.

See you all in Hell,

Contemplating Underland


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